The Renegades: A Charlie Hood Novel

by T. Jefferson Parker

  Herredia sat at his big iron desk. The huge Desert Eagle revolver lay in front of him. He didn’t rise to greet Draper, or smile, or even acknowledge him. All of his dark attention went to Bradley. Draper saw something ancient in Herredia’s stare, and he thought of lions eating cubs, and Pharaoh and Moses, and wondered if he’d need to shove Bradley off in a bulrush basket.

  “What are you?” asked Herredia.

  “An outlaw, sir, by birth and profession.”

  “What is loyalty?”

  “The greatest gift that can be offered or received.”

  “Who has your loyalty?”

  “Those loyal to me.”

  “Take one step forward and set down the box. At your feet.”

  Bradley stepped toward Herredia, squatted and lowered the box to the floor, then straightened and folded his hands contritely behind his back.

  “How important is your life to you?” asked Herredia.

  “Pretty damned. This is all we get, as far as I can see. I’ll negotiate the afterlife when I see that I have one.”

  “Did you kill the man who shot your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many others?”

  “None, sir.”

  “Did this make you proud or ashamed? Did it draw you toward God or the Devil?”

  “Proud. The Devil. Of course.”

  Herredia idly picked up the gun and set it back down on the desk, pointed at Bradley. He never took his eyes off of him. “Why do you say ‘of course’?”

  “I thought you would understand, sir.”

  “You presume to understand what I understand?”

  “I don’t mind the company of the Devil, Mr. Herredia. I’m just a thief. If you feel closer to God, then I apologize to you and to Him. Very sincerely.”

  Herredia looked at Draper for the first time. Draper saw no recognition in the black eyes. Then they were back on Bradley.

  “How old are you?” asked Herredia.

  “Eighteen.”

  “Your driver’s license says seventeen.”

  “I round up on the little things. But I always count the big things with extreme care and accuracy.”

  “Such as in the luggage.”

  “Yes.”

  “Open the box slowly. Felipe has a knife.”

  But Bradley flicked his wrist and a switchblade appeared and the blade clicked open. Draper saw the ripple of surprise in Herredia’s face. Bradley knelt and swept the knife across the taped seams—middle and both sides. He closed the knife with a one-handed flourish and dropped it into a pocket. He pulled out a red, green and white beach towel from one end, uncoiling it from within. Then another. The Mexican colors, thought Draper: cagey.

  Bradley dropped the second beach towel to the floor and looked down into the box. All Draper could see was what looked like a glass bottle of water. There was something dark inside but the light reflected off the surface of the liquid and Draper could not make out what he was seeing.

  Then Bradley reached down into the box and hefted out the bottle by its bottom. He held it outward toward Herredia.

  Draper saw the head bobbing in the liquid and the long black hair floating just off the bottom. The head was pale. He couldn’t see the eyes or the expression of the face.

  “This is the head of Joaquin Murrieta,” said Bradley. “He was my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather. He is the same Joaquin Murrieta that you’ve read about—the legendary horse thief, marksman, gambler, seducer and generous benefactor of the poor.”

  “Set him on my desk.”

  Bradley stepped forward and set the jar in front of Herredia.

  Draper watched El Patrón peer into the jar. The head tilted and wavered slowly in the liquid, as if it were carrying on a conversation.

  “His head was supposed to be lost in the San Francisco earthquake of 1906,” said Herredia.

  “It was stolen the day before by his great-grandson, Ramón. It was passed down to my mother, the outlaw Allison Murrieta.”

  “But where is the hand of Three-Fingered Jack?”

  “It was never in the same jar with Joaquin. That was an error of history. There were many errors about Joaquin.”

  “Fantástico,” said Herredia. “Felipe.”

  The old man came forward and leaned his craggy face to the jar. His voice was a whisper: “Murrieta!”

  With this, Bradley turned and looked at Draper, whose attention went back and forth between the head in the jar and the wide-eyed delight of Carlos Herredia.

  Then Bradley turned back to El Patrón. His voice was clear and calm. “I can’t let you have him, sir. He’s family. I wanted him to meet you. I want you to understand that I am who you need.”

  Herredia frowned and snarled something to the men in the corners. They burst past Draper and closed in on Bradley, a pistol held to each of his temples as they wrenched back his arms and pushed him up hard against the iron desk.

  “He is not a gift?” asked Herredia.

  “I am your gift.”

  Herredia stood and lifted his tremendous handgun and pushed the end of the barrel into Bradley’s chest.

  Draper estimated the line of fire through Bradley’s heart and took a small step to his left.

  “You bring me Murrieta then try to take him away from me?”

  “I am Murrieta. You, of all the men on Earth, understand that.”

  Herredia spit out a command and the men forced Bradley to his knees. Draper watched Herredia lean across the desk, brace himself on his left hand, and touch the barrel of the gun to Bradley’s forehead. Draper squinted at the dire tableaux.

  Bradley said nothing. He didn’t bow his head. From where he was standing, Draper couldn’t see the expression on the boy’s face but he could see Herredia’s menace and when the hammer of the revolver locked back into place, the sound seemed to come from every corner of the room—from above and below, ahead and behind, from left and right.

  “I do not like you,” said Herredia.

  “I was hoping you would, sir.”

  “You are not trembling. You look up at me with fear but without terror. Where is your terror?”

  “I have faith in you instead.”

  “Where did you get this faith in me?”

  “From Draper. He’s a good judge of men, and he fears and loves you. As do I.”

  Herredia looked at him and Draper held his gaze. Herredia straightened and set his gun back on the desk.

  “Of what real use to you is this head?” he asked.

  “It’s a family thing, sir. Like an old Christmas ornament passed down through generations. Or a cane carved by an ancestor. Or the metal shaving mirror that my great-great-grandfather brought home with him from World War I.”

  Herredia gestured and sat back down and the gunmen lifted Bradley to his feet.

  “Gracias, hombres,” said Bradley. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then straightened his back and shook his head as if to clear it.

  Herredia looked him up and down, and smiled. “What is this? What has the new Murrieta done to himself?”

  “I was hoping you’d overlook it.”

  “I overlook nothing.”

  Draper saw the sparkle of liquid on Bradley’s left boot, and the small pool of liquid on the floor.

  “Actually,” said Bradley. “I felt a wee bit of terror.”

  “Bravo, Jones,” said Herredia. “You are maybe a little less crazy than I thought you were. Coleman, take him to his room while we weigh the money. You will stay here tonight.”

  Draper felt a flood of goodwill sweep into his heart. He couldn’t remember the last time that things had seemed so possible.

  Bradley bowed deeply to Herredia, turned and followed Draper out.

  LATE THE NEXT morning Draper flashed his ID and shield to the U.S. agents manning the booth and they waved the Touareg through with only a cursory second look.

  Picking up Interstate 5 north, Draper’s head pounded smartly from the nigh
t before. Herredia had insisted on a bacchanalia just like in the old days with Terry. He enjoyed impressing Bradley with his power and wealth and his taste in wine, women and guns. Draper looked over at Bradley, slumped, head bobbing, a weathered Stetson pulled down low, sunglasses slipping down his nose. The kid could party, no doubt about that.

  “How does it feel to have five grand in your pocket, tax free?” asked Draper.

  “I can’t feel my pocket.”

  “Every week, month after month, year after year.”

  “I’m not going to drink like that once a week.”

  “Learn to control yourself.”

  “I did exactly what I wanted to do.”

  Draper sped north through National City, looked out at the great ships docked there, the massive warriors of the U.S. Navy in for repair and maintenance.

  “It’s a great gig, Coleman. I wonder why you decided to cut me in.”

  “This isn’t a job for one man.”

  “There are plenty of other men. Why me?”

  “Because we’re similar.”

  “Yeah. Two arms, two legs and a hangover.”

  “And because I see and understand you. I endorse your handling of Kick. Two can accomplish what one can only dream of. We have a future.”

  Draper was aware of Bradley studying him over the sunglasses.

  “You think you understand me,” said Bradley.

  Draper said nothing but he knew he understood Bradley better than Bradley understood himself. Bradley was still a child. He believed that he deserved everything he had: his good mind and strong body and sharp eyes, Erin, his friends, his luck. But Draper saw foolishness in him, too, and he believed that Bradley would never discover his true self until much of what he had was taken away. Draper could help with that, especially with Erin, when the time was right—a bright moment in the future, something to look forward to, a diamond in a dark mine.

  But as the miles slipped behind him Draper’s thoughts darkened to Hood and the awful predicament that the young deputy had forced him into. Since the Jacumba disaster, Draper had all but surrendered his two fine homes, his two lovely women, his little girl, his auto repair business, and his reservist’s position in the LASD. They were all too hot to touch. He was nothing more than a fugitive. Using false ID, he’d rented a Culver City apartment from a landlord happy to accept cash from a man who wanted no receipt. He felt displaced, bullied, humiliated. He refused to run: this was his home, his land, his people. He had to get his things back. Maybe not the sheriff’s reserve badge, but everything else. Everything else. But now, all he could do was lie low. Luckily he had large stockpiles of cash, and his precious weekly gig for Rocky and Herredia, constantly bringing in more and more money.

  He felt a growing anger at Hood, who had brought all of this down on him.

  “I need your help with something,” he said.

  “I’m not going to loan you my five grand.”

  “I want you to set up a meeting with Hood.”

  Draper looked at Bradley and saw the gears working in the boy’s mind, trying to engage.

  “Why?”

  “I need to see him. But if he knows I’ll be there he’ll bring the cavalry. If he thinks it’s only you, he’ll come alone. Somewhere unremarkable. Somewhere public. The boardwalk in Venice, say. You don’t even need to show up. Better if you don’t.”

  In the boy’s dark eyes Draper saw the glimmer of something seen and grasped, if not yet completely understood.

  “Hood,” Bradley said quietly.

  “Look what he did to your mother,” said Draper. “Look what he’s done to me. He’s the only one who has actually seen me. He’s the only witness against me. And he’ll damage you too if he can, Bradley. He eats away at things.”

  Bradley said nothing for two miles. Then he turned and studied the cardboard box containing the head of his notorious ancestor, lovingly repackaged for transport by Felipe back at El Dorado. Looking then at Draper, Bradley’s expression was unknowable after having his picture taken with it.

  “I’ll think about that,” Bradley said. Five minutes later his hat was on his lap and his head was lolling back against the window.

  42

  A week later Hood drove to Venice Beach to meet Bradley for breakfast. Hood was surprised the boy wanted to see him. It was early enough to get a good parking place near Ocean Front. Hood waited in front of the bookstore, looking at the covers. It was the first day of spring but the morning was gray and cool and the sidewalk was slick and the beach sand was darkened with drizzle.

  It was too early for the bodybuilders at Muscle Beach, and too early for the bookstore to be open, but the sidewalk was busy with joggers and boarders and bladers and cyclists.

  Hood could tell that Bradley had something on his mind yesterday when he called to set up breakfast. He was pretty sure he knew what it was.

  A couple of days earlier, Erin had called him to say that she’d gotten a recording contract with a good indie label. Not much money, but a start. She was crazy happy. They’d celebrated the next night at the Bordello, drank a “whole truckload” of champagne, and at six in the morning, while watching the sun rise over Vasquez Rocks, Bradley had asked her to marry him. He’d actually bought her a diamond ring—big rock, gold. Must have cost five grand, she guessed. Bradley had told her that the diamond would outlive them both but their love would outlast even the diamond. She accepted immediately. She said she’d never felt so free and powerful and blessed in her life. She also told Hood to act surprised if Bradley called: she couldn’t keep from telling him herself ASAP, but she didn’t want to steal Bradley’s thunder.

  After twenty minutes there was still no Bradley so Hood walked south toward the pier. He watched the fishermen for a while, saw the bait dropping into the dark green ocean and the mackerel slapping in a red bucket. He called Bradley but got no answer, so he headed back to his car.

  Ocean Front was busier now, the sidewalk bustling and the vendors setting up. A platoon of pretty girls bladed past him, hair flying. A couple glided by on a bicycle built for two. A bunch of joggers hurried by, tight and colorful, like a school of fish.

  Hood looked out toward the glassy dark Pacific and saw Bradley traipsing across the sand toward him. Bradley had on a bomber jacket and a trucker’s cap and his long black hair was flying in the wind beneath the cap.

  Then, fifty feet ahead on the boardwalk, out where the bicycle built for two vanished into a throng of power walkers, Hood saw Londell Dwayne coming in his direction. He wore his black Detroit Tigers hoodie and a black knit cap down over his ears, and sunglasses. His hands were in the sweatshirt pocket.

  Hood wondered at his unusual gait—not the lanky, cool-ass shuffle that was Londell—but a purposeful march. Londell was a man on a mission.

  Hood wondered why Delilah wasn’t with him.

  And why Londell was whistling.

  He wondered why Dwayne’s face remained steadily fixed in his direction. Hood could tell that the man was concentrating on only one thing: him.

  Hood looked quickly at Bradley, hands in his coat pockets now, still trudging through the sand toward him, eighty feet away.

  A skater weaved between Londell and Hood. By the time she passed out of his field of vision Londell had dropped his gloved left hand from the hoodie pocket. The right hand remained hidden. He was still fixated on Hood, who elbowed back his coat and popped the holster snap and rested his hand on the grip of his weapon.

  Londell was thirty feet away when a pair of joggers angled between them. In their wake Hood saw Dwayne bring out the pistol. Hood heard someone yell, “He’s got a gun!” and then everyone was screaming and running, the air stiff with chaos.

  Bodies flew past at all angles, as if launched by an explosion. A small boy wearing earbuds and playing a harmonica walked between Hood and Londell, oblivious to what was happening. Hood grabbed him by his collar and pulled him to the ground. He heard the sizzling buzz of a bullet going past his face. But his lin
e of fire was suddenly clear and to him the world stopped for one full second while he shot Londell twice dead center. Dwayne crashed through the display window of a swimwear store and sprawled through the mannequins as the glass rained down on him. Hood could hear the screams of the people all around but all he saw was Londell, gun still in hand, covered by the shards of glass. With his weapon in a two-hand grip, Hood ran to the window and reached in and pulled away Londell’s gun.

  Hood’s two shots had hit six inches apart, one just above the heart and one just under. Londell was breathing fast and shallow and blood ran from his mouth and nose and pooled near the base of his throat. Hood looked behind him toward the beach but Bradley was gone.

  Then Hood looked back at Londell and that was when he finally, truly saw the man. He could hardly believe his eyes. Hood lifted Dwayne’s cap back, which freed the pale blond forelock to wave in the ocean breeze.

  Hood pulled off the sunglasses and looked into pale gray eyes. He ran a fingernail down the man’s cheek and saw the path it made through the black makeup.

  “I’m not afraid,” Draper whispered. “Never was. Not now.”

  “Maybe you should have been.”

  Draper looked at him and blew between his lips like he was trying to whistle.

  “You and Terry shot Lopes and Vasquez, beat Eichrodt so hard he lost his mind.”

  Draper coughed blood and nodded. “I’m dying.”

  “You took out Terry when his conscience got too heavy. And you let me live so I could ID Londell.”

  “Never afraid. Not once. Not now.”

  “You set the Jacumba fire, didn’t you?”

  Draper’s hand lifted and paused uncertainly in midair. It looked like he was offering something to Hood. Hood grabbed it and pried out a small automatic and a switchblade. The gun was upside down in Draper’s fist and the blade of the knife was still closed. They fell to the glass, followed by Draper’s hand. Then a rattle shook his throat and his face softened and the life drifted from his eyes.